BANG
by ElvendorkInfinity
Summary: My take on what happens after 'The Great Game'. 'I should warn you,' Sherlock says, his voice steady and his eyes fixed on Moriarty. 'You are sadly misinformed.' And he fires. Sequel, M is for Moriarty, now posted.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer – I do not own Sherlock Holmes, in this incarnation or any other.**

**AN – Prior to the BBC's incarnation, I knew nothing about Sherlock Holmes. Now I am hooked.**

**Okay, so 'the aftermath', so to speak, is not exactly an original fanfiction idea. But this is my take on it. Enjoy. :)**

Fear is not a concept Sherlock Holmes is used to, much less terror. He had quite forgotten he _could_ even feel such things, until now – until he is stood with Moriarty in front of him, with the _bomb_ in front of him – not entirely sure which of them is more dangerous – and John to the side, John slumped against the wall, John as trapped as he is. As all three of them are.

There is no way out of this, no way of escape for him, for Moriarty or for John, and worse than fear, another, stronger emotion is surfacing; hate. Pure, absolute, burning, raging, destructive, uncontrollable _hate_...

Oh, the _puzzle_! The puzzle the puzzle the puzzle. How it fascinates him. How the mysteries of Moriarty _thrill _him, because they are so very, very far from boredom...but how dare he, _how dare he_ even _think_ about _winning_? Sherlock Holmes always wins – he _can't_ fail, he just _can't_. And how dare he stand there looking oh-so-confident, oh-so-sure, oh-so-_unafraid_, it isn't _FAIR_!

..._I will burn the _heart_ out of you..._

_...I have been reliably informed that I don't have one..._

_...we both know that's not quite true..._

How could he, _how could he_, possibly know about Sherlock, more than anyone else – how could he give off such an air of just knowing, just _knowing_, exactly how to frighten the man without emotion?

But if now is anything to go by, Sherlock has been wrong. John has been wrong. Everyone has been wrong except Moriarty, who looks so smug and superior that Sherlock's insides writhe with loathing, and with _fear_. He doesn't understand it, he doesn't _understand _emotions – and that makes everything worse. Because not understanding, not clinging to them, being able to dismiss them when he needs to...that doesn't mean that he doesn't feel them, and Moriarty knows exactly how to make them surface when they are least wanted.

'You won't do it,' he says simply, smirking and rocking back on his heels, looking quite relaxed.

'Oh?' Sherlock is aware of responding to the statement but little else; his mind is so crowded, so noisy, he can't even think above the din, he just needs it all to SHUT UP!

'Nope,' Moriarty replies cheerfully, leaning forwards slightly and grinning. 'Want to know how I know?'

'Enlighten me,' Sherlock's eyes rake the pool for what must be the hundredth time; his face is expressionless and his hand, holding the gun, completely steady, but his insides are in turmoil. There _must_ be an escape...

'Because _all_ of us go up,' he says, 'not just you and me Sherlock, _all_ of us.' He looks at John now, and Sherlock's heart doubles in pace and seems to stop at the same time, it's pounding only adding to the racket in his head that makes it impossible to grasp at a plan, but he must be able to...Sherlock Holmes always thinks of something, he's _Sherlock Holmes_, he must be able to do _something_!

John recoils as Moriarty looks at him, an evil smile unfurling across his face but not meeting his cold eyes, gleaming with malice and enjoyment – Sherlock's gaze is just as unnerving because it is so very _un-_Sherlock, so intense and urgent and _afraid_ that it can't be him – but underneath the storm in his eyes, a calm appears. A cool, intellectual calm of Sherlock at his most thoughtful, most analytical, and a sudden glimmer of...hope?

Sherlock glances at Moriarty. At the bomb. At John. And then, so minutely, so infinitesimally, that John half wonders if maybe he's seeing things, he flicks his head towards the water. John nods, swallows. Tenses his muscles, trying to ready himself without Moriarty noticing...the red spots of light on his chest shift and shiver but they don't leave him, they never leave him, and Sherlock has his very own collection – somehow, he is ignoring them. John tries to do the same, tries not to think about the burning pain of a bullet ripping through his flesh, the agony of it, the indignity of being injured like that, and the _panic, _the dread of death...the awful, absolute, incomprehensible knowledge that he is going to die, this is it, this is all he will ever see again – the pool or Afghanistan, it doesn't matter where he is or who is aiming at him, because nothing beyond the bullet would exist if it hit him, nothing would matter but the pain...

'I should warn you,' Sherlock says, his voice steady and his eyes fixed on Moriarty. 'You are sadly misinformed.'

And he fires.

Then it's noise and it's movement, and there's not just one gunshot but dozens, and a roaring, blazing _blast_, splashes and the sound of crumbling tiles, muffled under the water John is only vaguely aware of having lunged for – even the water burns, but it's safer than the surface, scalds are most definitely preferable to being ripped apart by the flying debris above, which is crashing down almost in slow motion into the pool where he and Sherlock are sheltered, not safe, but saf_er_, better than the surface. His eyes sting but he has to keep them open, he has to dodge and kick and pull himself out of the way of rock and tile that threatens to crush him as it falls down, he has to see Sherlock, has to make sure he made it in, make sure he hasn't been hit.

But he's going dizzy so fast, and the explosion seems to last forever...he needs to surface, needs to breathe...he notices dully, through his oxygen-deprived brain, that the water is slowly turning red, not a wisp, not a tendril, but a _cloud_ of red, and it isn't coming from him – Sherlock is bleeding and there's so much of it, there's so much blood and John can't _think_, he can't breathe, he can't surface, he can't stay here and he Goddamn cannot _THINK!_

* * *

_John._

Sherlock's brain isn't offering anything up, nothing but a name. He's hazy, his vision is blurry...why is he wet?

_JohnJohnJohn_.

He's lightheaded. He needs to breathe.

_JohnJohnJohnJohn_.

Who's John? Why is the name swimming around in his head? Swimming...why does that sound important? And why does the name John seem to make him so...afraid?

_John._

_Bomb._

_Gun._

_Dead._

_John dead?_

His heart constricts in his chest at the thought, but he doesn't know why. Who is John? And why on Earth is there so much _water_?

_Burn._

_Dead._

_That's what people DO!_

Something is pulling him – some_one_ is pulling him – to the edge of the pool...to the surface...debris has stopped falling now, and they scramble for dry ground, gasping for breath – everything is hot, everything they touch burns, but it's dry and it's over, their chests are heaving, dragging in desperately for oxygen, both coughing, retching, stumbling about with their eyes squeezed shut or squinting against the sting, their throats burn with the heat of the air, their lungs ache at the long lack of it, their heads spin...

Sherlock's vision is still blurry. The world seems to be tilting and he's so lightheaded it hurts...he clings to the ground to stop himself falling, dizziness overwhelming him...he _hurts_...

John hurries forwards, trying to clear his head, trying to _focus_; Sherlock is collapsing, he's bleeding, he's _covered _ in blood...so much blood...he's pale, paler than ever, paler than death – _no_ – no he's not, he can't be...he's so far away...why does he look so far away? Why isn't he moving anymore? And why won't John's legs do as he tells them to?

Darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer – I do not own Sherlock Holmes, or we wouldn't have been left with such an evil cliffhanger.**

**AN – Thank you everyone for the reviews. You are all wonderful. :) I hope you enjoy this chapter. **

What hits Lestrade first is the _smell_, even before he sees it. And then he shuts the car door and turns, and it's a whole lot worse now he's facing the wreckage; a twisted, blackened shell of a building he's told was once a swimming pool. It takes a moment of searching to spot the place where the water is; most of it has been blasted away or else evaporated, but there's still a gaping hole in the ground, and police tape has already been added to surround it as a warning.

The entire building has collapsed, and much of the surrounding area is at best littered with debris, but this doesn't stop the onlookers gathering, peering curiously over the boundary his fellow officers have set up, trying to push their way forwards; reporters are there already, holding out microphones and calling incessant questions...Lestrade ignores them and approaches the scene, waylaying a passing paramedic as he does.

'Anyone in there?' He can't think why there possibly would have been, a swimming pool must have been long closed at this time, but he has to ask; the woman shakes her head, and Lestrade breathes a sigh of relief.

'Not that we've found yet,' she replies. Lestrade nods and walks away, leaving her to hurry back to whatever it is she was doing.

Fire crews are swarming around, putting out fires and helping to move rubble, searching for survivors – or, God forbid, but it seems so much more likely – corpses. Paramedics rush to likely spots, carrying emergency medical kits and looking harried but focused, professional. Police help with the rescue work and question bystanders, searching for someone, anyone, who might have seen what happened, might have seen someone enter, or leave, or _anything_. Flashing lights from emergency services vehicles provide most of the illumination, along with hastily erected temporary floodlights provided by the police. All of the surrounding streetlamps have been blown out.

Try as he might, Lestrade cannot think of a reason bombers would attack a deserted swimming pool. What kind of message did that send? It would shake people, yes, it would cost money to replace or clear up, but it wouldn't cause any lasting _fear_...unless there had been something in there specific the bomber – for he is assuming there _has_ been a bomber, he can think of no other explanation – was targeting? But _what_?

'Over here Sir!' There comes a shout, and Lestrade turns to see a group gathering at a point on the other side of the pool, bent over something, bustling urgently – oh _God_. They've found someone. They must have. Nothing else could warrant such an influx of paramedics – already, two are clambering over from an ambulance carrying a stretcher, and three or four more are kneeling in the centre of the small crowd, working hurriedly.

He recognises the ashen face of the man they have found as soon as he sees it. John Watson is conscious, but barely, trapped among rubble and mumbling incoherently while the paramedics try to coax an answer out of him, assuring him all the while that it will be ok, that everything was going to be fine...

'Search around him,' Lestrade commands sharply. One of the fire-fighters looks up, bemused by his urgent tone.

'Detective –'

'_Now_!' Several of the searchers broke away and began carefully peering into cracks, shifting the detritus cautiously, calling for survivors.

Lestrade watches for a second before he snaps into action, kneeling to help them. He knows more than them what he is looking for after all. He knows _who_. If John Watson is here, then Sherlock Holmes will be.

'Mmhmf,' it's John; they've levered him onto the stretcher and he's trying to turn towards them, mumbling incoherently, 'Shrlk,'

'We're searching,' Lestrade tells him, hoping he sounds more reassuring to John than he does to himself. He doesn't hear John's reply, if he makes one, as the paramedics carry him away. And he turns back; he sees something large and heavy being shifted and catches sight of a pale hand. A sleeve; black, wet, torn. A thin face, whiter than he has ever seen it but smeared with dirt, and a mop of curly dark hair.

* * *

John doesn't open his eyes. He can tell, even with them closed, that the room is painfully bright. His chest aches. His head hurts. His shoulder is agony; his leg is almost as bad. He's stiff, and groggy, and his brain is too sluggish at first to register the sounds of the bleeping machines surrounding him, or the smell of disinfectant.

The pain, at least, is a sure sign that he is alive. This is good. He thinks.

He can hear Moriarty's voice, even though he _knows_ he can't be here, he _knows_ that the only possible escape could have been the pool, and he _knows _that Moriarty can't have done it...but the voice haunts him. Laughs at him.

* * *

The next thing John is aware of is that the light is dimmer. Moriarty's echoing voice may have drifted into nightmares, he doesn't know; maybe he dreamed waking up, maybe he passed out. Whatever happened, he is awake now, he's sure of it, and he dares to open his eyes. It doesn't hurt as much as he thought it would. But then, maybe his other injuries are swallowing it.

The room is a typical hospital; white sheets on his bed, pale, neutrally coloured walls and a squeaky, well cleaned floor. Wires and tubes have him attached to bleeping, blinking machines. The IV in his hand itches.

He is relieved to realise that he is not in ICU. That means that his injuries cannot be that severe. He is in a private room, but he doesn't dwell on this. He prefers it, and he isn't going to question it.

Okay. He thinks; inventory his injuries. Assess their severity.

His lungs ache. Oxygen deprivation. Smoke inhalation. He'll recover.

His head hurts. Falling debris. Stress. Shock. More oxygen deprivation.

He's sluggish. Passing out. Nearly drowning. Being blown up. Morphine. Pick one.

His shoulder and leg hurt. Previous injuries. Not important.

Wrist. In a cast. Broken, probably. Debris. Being blown up.

Nausea. Shock. Drugs.

Cuts and bruises, some more severe than others; one on his head feels pretty nasty, but is patched up expertly.

Dried blood crumbles away on his hand when he touches the wound; dark red, almost brown. Not much. Not –

Blood. Pool. Explosion. Gunshots. _Blood_.

Sherlock.

* * *

'Doctor Watson, I really must insist –'

'Let go of me.'

'Please sit down, Doctor Watson, or I will have to sedate you,'

'I'm fine.'

'You need to rest,'

'I'm _fine_.'

'Really, John,' the voice has mellowed, Lestrade notices as he approaches the door. Perhaps decided that a gentler approach will be more effective. 'We will _tell_ you if there is any change, I assure you we are applying our best efforts, but right now you need to focus on your own health.'

'There's nothing wrong with my own health,'

'Doctor Watson, are you going to sit back down or am I going to _have_ to sedate you?'

A soft _flump_ as someone sits on a bed. A sigh, deliberately loud. Lestrade knocks, and is let in by a stern looking doctor, taller than him and balding, long nosed and sharp eyed.

'Detective Inspector Lestrade. I need to speak to Doctor Watson.'

'I'm afraid John needs rest right now Sir, you will able to speak to him when he has recovered slightly.'

'It is very important,' Lestrade tells him firmly. Huffing irritably, the doctor steps aside and lets Lestrade past.

'Please do not distress my patient, Detective Inspector. He needs rest.'

Lestrade nods curtly and waits for the doctor to leave, which he does, albeit reluctantly. John is watching expectantly, looking ready to jump off the bed and tear out of the door at a moment's notice, though his face is still unnervingly grey and he doesn't look as if he would last long before collapsing if he _does_ do what he obviously wants to.

'Have you seen Sherlock?' John asks before Lestrade can speak, his eyes searching and almost desperate.

'No. I'm told he hasn't woken up yet – in ICU,' he adds. Worry flashes in John's eyes but he doesn't move, waiting for Lestrade to speak.

John swallows, struggling to force himself to obey his orders to stay put...he hates just sitting here when he _knows_ he's fine, why on Earth wouldn't he be? Minor injuries, nothing else...he's suffered worse, and he's a _doctor_, he shouldn't just be sat here while his friend is obviously in need of medical attention. The rational part of his mind tells him that Sherlock is already receiving all the treatment that he needs, but a stronger part of him tells him he _needs _to be involved – he needs to do something other than just _sit here_.

But sit here he does, and he doesn't move as he awaits Lestrade's questions, which he doubtless has many of.

'What happened?'

Obvious question; obvious answer.

'The pool blew up,' John replies. He doesn't mean it to be a joke, though Lestrade's lips thin as though he believes it is and disapproves. He just can't think of another answer; it's all so _muddled_.

'Why were you there?' John pauses, thinks. It's a blur, really, everything since he left the flat...he realises dully that he doesn't even really know how long ago that was. He doesn't know how long he's been out for, but it can't be more than a day. He eyes the light filtering through the window. Almost a day. At least.

'Moriarty,' John croaks eventually, and the spine chillingly cheerful voice floats back to him...

_Jim? Jim from the hospital?_

He shakes his head, tries to clear it before continuing.

'Sherlock had the missile plans. I think he meant to give them to Moriarty. I don't know. I arrived separately,' he stops. Takes a deep breath and clenches his fists to stop them shaking, embarrassed by his show of fear, of weakness. 'Moriarty used me as a hostage,' he explains the bomb.

Explains being used as a puppet, forced to do exactly as Moriarty wanted him to...and it's like he's there again, seeing the momentary flash of betrayal in Sherlock's eyes, switching quickly to fear and concern, then shutting off...it's almost relief that John feels, almost, because it proves that Sherlock really _isn't_ quite as cold as he appears to be, but then...if he was, Moriarty wouldn't have chosen John would he? He could have used anyone...John wouldn't be here if Sherlock didn't care.

_I stopped him. I can stop John Watson too...stop his heart._

And he's stood there as he tells Lestrade what happened, he's stood with his back to Moriarty, frozen in place until he sees his opportunity – he lunges for Moriarty, grabs him and tells Sherlock to run but of course he doesn't – it doesn't matter anyway because then there's a red dot on Sherlock's forehead and John lets go, steps back with his hands up.

He hears their voices again. Moriarty leaves.

_Catch...you...later._

_No you won't!_

Sherlock tears the bomb vest away and flings it across the floor...

_Alright? Are you alright?_

John answers weakly, unconvincingly, collapses...Moriarty returns, and so do the damnable red lights – and Sherlock aims and fires...

'Why the hell did he do that?' Lestrade interrupts, frowning. Before now, John didn't know. But he finds an answer ready on his lips, and gives it without thinking.

'If he shot Moriarty, we would both have been shot as well – we had a better chance if the bomb went off. We jumped in the pool.'

It sounds so ridiculously idiotic and surprisingly simple when he explains it, but in his mind it's still a mess, still confusing; it's difficult even to sort events into chronological order as he recounts them.

Lestrade doesn't need to hear the rest; he knows it. They clambered from the pool. They were buried under falling debris. They were found. They were brought here. A day passed.

'I want to see Sherlock,' says John after a long pause. Lestrade frowns, considers.

'I'll see what I can do.'

**AN – And that is where I will leave this chapter...not where I was planning to stop, but it's beginning to stretch and I think a third instalment is in order. That will, most likely, be it. It depends on your reactions. Please review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer : Still not owning it.**

**AN: Probably of no interest to you, but I got my AS exam results yesterday. Five As! I'm so happy.**

**28 reviews for two chapters – thank you all, again! Please enjoy, this was quite a difficult chapter to write so I hope it turned out okay.**

Someone is sat next to Sherlock.

_...everything I have to say has already crossed your mind..._

The someone shifts in their chair.

_...probably my answer has crossed yours..._

_A long pause; too long, Sherlock's hesitation is obvious..._

Sherlock can hear beeping.

_...you won't do it..._

_...oh?_

_...nope...because _all_ of us go up..._

It's very irritating; he wishes it would go away.

_...I should warn you...you are sadly misinformed..._

_The explosion is so _loud_, he thinks his eardrums might actually break; there's pain and noise, then the blissful quiet of the pool where all sound is muffled, but he needs to breathe – he's far too light-headed for it to just be the oxygen though...something is wrong..._

Which of the noises he can hear are real? He can't tell...

_...evening..._

_...John – what the hell?_

_...stop his heart..._

_...what people DO!_

All of them are very vivid, and at the same time seem from very far away.

_...did I really make such a fleeting impression?_

_...I will burn you..._

What's that beeping, anyway? Is it the bomb? But no; the bomb hasn't made a noise. Not until Sherlock buries a bullet in it, anyway.

_...Sherlock run!_

_...burn the _heart_ out of you..._

_...Jim? Jim from the hospital?_

_...making me dance..._

He wishes he knew which part was real. It's all very muddled; is this what normal people's heads feel like? Sherlock doesn't like it. Why are things happening out of order? And why does his whole body seem to ache?

_...you won't do it..._

_

* * *

_

This is _wrong_.

Sherlock is not a cliché; he doesn't look like he's resting, he doesn't look peaceful, he doesn't look normal. Were it not for the hospital room, the wires and tubes and machines, he would not have appeared simply asleep.

His brow is creased with a frown; his eyes are moving rapidly under their lids, and his hand twitches; no. Not his hand. His finger – his trigger finger. John knows what Sherlock is dreaming about, and a fresh wave of hatred for Moriarty sweeps over him because this. Is. _Wrong_.

It's wrong because Sherlock was the one closest to the pool, _he_ should have had a better chance – because right now it feels like Moriarty has won, whether or not he survived, because Sherlock just shouldn't _look_ like this.

He shouldn't be so frighteningly pale, he shouldn't have to have machines to tell them whether his heart is still beating normally, he shouldn't be covered in so many bandages, the chart shouldn't read _gunshot wound, abdomen, major blood loss_, it shouldn't say _broken ribs_, it shouldn't, it just _shouldn't_!

Sherlock should be awake, and scoffing disbelievingly at the sheer stupidity of everyone around him...he should be awake to be rude, to be sarcastic and brilliant, unpredictable, insufferable, eccentric...

And coughing.

John jumps, calls for help and automatically tries to extract the intubation tube but he is pushed aside as a stout, grey haired doctor rushes in and takes instant control, ensuring quickly that he is breathing on his own and running a quick check on his vitals. Seeming satisfied at least that he isn't about to go into cardiac or respiratory arrest, she speaks.

'Sir, are you alright?' She asks loudly and slowly, as though speaking to a person either deaf or extremely dim; John winces, hating that Sherlock of all people is the one to be spoken to like that. 'My name is Doctor Fircroft; can you tell me your name?' She flashes a light across his eyes, checking pupil dilation. Apparently pleased, she steps back and scrutinises him with her hands on her hips.

'Sherlock Holmes,' is the hoarse reply, as he blinks to rid himself of the blind spots the torch has caused. He looks irritated; somehow, this is a relief to John.

'Do you know where you are? Do you remember what happened to you?'

'Yes. To both,' Fircroft raises her eyebrows. John smirks.

'Well?'

'You asked...' he stops, frowning and wincing away from the brightness of the room. 'John, you tell her.' Fircroft looks at John, perplexed.

'You asked him whether he did or not; you didn't ask him to tell you _what_ he actually remembered.' She still looks doubtful. 'He's being pedantic, it's a good sign,' John sighs, but he's smiling,

'You're going to have to tell me yourself Mr Holmes; I'm not curious, I'm trying to assess your mental state,' Sherlock raises a painful eyebrow at John, who shrugs helplessly. Sherlock groans.

'Hospital; bomb.' Speaking is painful, so he restricts his answers to her questions as far as possible to being single words.

Do you know what date it is? What's your brother's name? When's your birthday? How many fingers am I holding up?

On and on the questions seem to go, so dull that it's barely worth Sherlock's effort to reply, but he manages to pass Fircroft's test eventually and both he and John breathe sighs of relief when she pronounces him recovering, checks his painkillers, and leaves.

Sherlock closes his eyes and leans into his pillow. It hurts to talk. It also hurts to breathe, but he supposes he can't really avoid that; his throat is raw from the intubation tube and the pain in his chest is far too much to simply be the stress on his lungs of jumping into the pool; he suspects broken ribs.

'I'm –' John begins uncertainly, 'I thought you were dead. At the pool...you collapsed...' Sherlock opens one eye,

'I'm not.'

'I'm glad.' Sherlock's smile is almost nonexistent, but it flickers on his face long enough for John to notice.

'You too,' Sherlock suddenly says awkwardly; John frowns. 'You know...I mean – I'm glad that you're...'

'Thanks, Sherlock.'

For a long time neither of them speak and John takes the opportunity, while Sherlock has once more closed his eyes, to consider his friend's injuries. Sherlock is still extremely pale; his face and arms are littered with minor scratches and when he moves, he does so carefully, wincing as pain flashes through his chest or abdomen.

John cringes as guilt, like a physical pain in his already over burdened body, washes over him. This is his fault – if he had just been more careful, if he had _seen_, if he had thought – _but that's stupid, of course it isn't his fault...if Sherlock hadn't seen it coming, how on Earth was he supposed to_? But he could have fought harder, he could have refused to go into the pool in the first place – _and be killed_. _Anyway, Moriarty would have found someone else_. He could have pulled Sherlock away, insisted on leaving before Moriarty came back, instead of just collapsing to the floor..._but how was he supposed to know that Moriarty was coming back_? He –

'Shut up,' mumbled Sherlock grumpily,

'I didn't –' John stops, rolling his eyes. It's easier not to argue the point, and besides, he's so glad to see Sherlock conscious that he hardly cares what he says.

'Not your fault,' The Detective continues, his eyes still closed, frowning, 'and you're giving me a headache.'

His mouth twitches into a smile and he opens his eyes, ever so slightly, to see John's reaction; John can't help but smile back.

'I'm sorry.'

'Shut up.'

Both of them look up as the doors at the end of the ward open; Lestrade waves away the nurse following him irritably, looking tired and annoyed, but he manages a brief smile that looks more like a grimace as he sees them.

'Glad to see you're awake,' he says to Sherlock when he reaches them; John notices the dark shadows under his eyes and doubts he's slept since yesterday.

'Moriarty?' Sherlock asks before anything else can be said; Lestrade shakes his head grimly.

'We've scoured the whole area but there's no sign of him, alive or dead.' John eyes widen and for a moment fear grips him with surprising force so that he has to concentrate to hear what's said next, trying to control the rush of images from the last two days which threaten to envelop him, actually glancing down to assure himself the sudden weight he feels isn't the bomb jacket back – to make sure there are no tell-tale red lights on his chest.

'He's alive.' Sherlock states, and there's a quaver in his voice John has never heard before, though his face remains impassive as ever.

'It would seem that way,' Lestrade replies carefully, 'though I wouldn't like to say for certain just yet.'

'Oh don't be stupid,' snaps Sherlock, 'he knew what I was going to do the moment he stepped back through that door; he must have had an escape plan.'

'But...Sherlock...' John says, though he knows Sherlock is probably right. He always is. 'We know he didn't jump in the pool, and how else would he have escaped?' _Wishful thinking._ He tells himself. He knows, he's known since he woke up in the hospital yesterday afternoon, that Moriarty would have survived...things just can't be that simple.

'Do we John? We were a little too preoccupied to notice, don't you think?'

John starts to say something, but stops himself; he can't argue. How can they _know_ what Moriarty did when the bomb went off? He, for one, was far too focused on ensuring both he and Sherlock survived – he hadn't spared a thought for Moriarty, and a man like that...he would have had other ways of getting out of there, John is sure of it.

He shudders.

* * *

Sarah visits later, though only briefly. She's tearful and relieved; John is quiet and guilt ridden. He should tell her to go. She's already seen how dangerous he obviously is to be around, and it isn't fair to expect her to put up with it too – but he doesn't say anything. He can't bring himself to.

She kisses him on the forehead when she leaves, promising to be back soon, smiling at him...John returns the gesture stiffly but if she notices anything unusual, she doesn't comment. Probably putting it down to his injuries, John decides. Or she's already made up her mind to leave, and hasn't told him yet. He won't blame her if she does; she should. It's safer for her. And why?

_Moriarty_.

Breathing hard, he realises he's clenching his fists so tightly his hands hurt, and slowly uncurls his fingers. He won't let Moriarty win. He _won't_. James Moriarty is _not_ going to rule his life, or Sarah's. He wants to think 'or Sherlock's', but he knows it's impossible...as long as Moriarty is alive, of course Sherlock will be drawn into it.

And so will John.

And Sarah, if she stays.

Fuming, John gets to his feet and begins to pace.

* * *

Sherlock once thought that being at the flat without a case was boring; now he almost longs for such a time, because at least then he can move, he can pace, he can experiment. This is _terminal_. Almost literally; he isn't allowed to get up and every time he tries he gets pushed back down with stern admonishments from the nurses. He wouldn't comply, but it's painful to move, so he reluctantly stays on the bed, his mind teeming.

_Bored_.

Where's Moriarty? He thinks hard, but he can't remember seeing him move at all...he had been in the middle of an explosion, throwing himself into a swimming pool, he tells himself. Even the great Sherlock Holmes can't be expected to notice everything in those circumstances.

He's reluctant to say so without more evidence, but it seems naive to assume that Moriarty would have returned without a fool-proof escape plan. He's too good for that. The flicker of admiration Sherlock feels at, for once, having an adversary even close to matching him in intelligence, is quickly drowned by annoyance; he doesn't like losing.

_Bored._

He doesn't like just laying here either; he entertains himself, once or twice, shocking passing hospital staff by announcing what he has deduced about them. Their reactions are typically predictable; one doctor scowls and leaves, muttering about arrogance and invasions of privacy. Another is astonished and overjoyed when Sherlock tells her that her husband really is sorry. Although, unfortunately, the affair did still happen.

It isn't enough though, and he feels he might go mad with the tedium. All the noises of the hospital are so repetitive and irritating; he wants his violin, but the doctors won't let him have it. His visitors are restricted, so he doesn't even have the opportunity to talk to John. Even one of his flat-mate's 'crap telly' shows would be welcome now.

* * *

'Anything yet?' Asks John; two days searching since Sherlock waking up have so far revealed nothing, and the only development is that Sherlock has been moved out of ICU, though his movements are still restricted to prevent him causing damage to himself. Lestrade shakes his head.

'We've combed every inch of the area, I think we have to accept that somehow, this Moriarty escaped.' It's the answer they were both expecting, but Lestrade notices both Sherlock and John react with disappointment; fear skims across John's features and Sherlock frowns, apparently deep in thought.

'He must be injured,' Sherlock mutters, more to himself than either John or Lestrade. 'He can't have moved fast enough not to be caught by some of the blast...might even need medical attention.'

'I've checked all the surrounding hospitals –'

'Do you really think that Moriarty is just going to walk into a hospital and ask for treatment? He, unlike some people, is not an idiot.'

'Well then what do you suggest?' Lestrade asks, forcing his voice to remain calm.

'Run a check of all the local pharmacies – break ins, thefts, anything. He'll have done it quietly – he won't want to draw attention to himself if he's weakened. Anything that looks professional. He may have taken small amounts from a number of places to avoid suspicion – not personally, of course, he'll have someone else do his dirty work.'

'Or,' begins John slowly, not wishing to make himself look a fool by challenging Sherlock, 'he might have made it look like something...you know, kids or something. Or junkies. To throw us off.' Sherlock looks surprised, but pleasantly so; John feels a flicker of pride. Has he just _impressed_ the mighty Sherlock Holmes?

'You're forgetting one thing,' Lestrade says, 'he thinks you two are dead; if that were the case then we'd have nothing to go on. He probably doesn't even think we're looking for him...' he trails off under the simultaneous hard gazes of John and Sherlock. The detective is rubbing off on the doctor, he thinks; usually only Sherlock manages to make him feel quite this stupid.

'He'll know,' John says quietly. Sherlock says nothing, pushing away his tiredness roughly. Now is not the time.

'How?'

'He just will. He probably knew...' John half glances at Sherlock, partly concerned about Sherlock's quickly stifled yawn and partly asking for reassurance that he isn't about to say something wrong, 'he probably knew we'd survive when he came back in.'

'Well then why bother? What's the point in threatening you if –'

'To mess with us,' Sherlock's voice is angry and determined, 'to entertain himself.' There's an odd look on Sherlock's face now; a mixture between understanding and, if John didn't know any better...he would say guilt. Then Sherlock leans back onto his pillow, blinking his weariness; sleep is an irritating human need, Sherlock decides, one he would much rather do without.

'Come now, come on!' Doctor Fircroft comes bustling over immediately, flapping her hands in a shooing gesture, 'Mr Holmes needs rest, you may come back later!' Lestrade nods, assures them that he will look into any pharmacy thefts, and leaves. John lingers. 'Come now, Doctor Watson, you may return later! You will do no good distressing Mr Holmes by keeping him awake!' Her voice is firm, but kind, and John turns to go, then pauses. He's surprised Sherlock hasn't spoken up his defiance at ordered solitude.

'You aren't him, you know,' he says quietly. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, 'Moriarty. You aren't him.' John clarifies, 'you're bored; he's bored. You catch murderers; he creates them.' With that, he turns to leave. He doesn't see the tiniest flicker of gratitude on Sherlock's face as he does.

* * *

The knowledge that Moriarty is almost definitely alive and plotting his next move against Sherlock makes it impossible for John to sleep that night; he lays awake for hours, staring into the darkness and trying to convince himself that the feeling of being watched that plagues him is paranoia and nothing more. He's jumpy, restless, and angry, and the feelings keep him awake, thoughts and speculations swirling in his head, howling like the wind that batters the window of the hospital room...

He's not sure if he eventually drifts into a fitful sleep or not; if he does, his dreams are much the same as his waking thoughts and when he wakes it's still dark, but there is someone in the room. Moving near the foot of the bed.

'Hello?' He cringes at the uncertainty in his voice. He's a soldier, for God's sake! Taking a deep breath and focusing hard on steadying his voice, he tries again, 'who's there?'

The dark figure doesn't speak, but it moves to the side of the bed and John feels, more than sees, his IV line twitch.

'What are you doing? What is that?' Something shiny – a needle? Glints in the darkness; panic shoots through John and he struggles to sit up, tangled in bed sheets and trying to grab the figure's hand. He feels the IV line twitch again, the needle heading towards it, and heavy exhaustion begins to settle on him. His eyelids droop against his will, and the harder he tries to remain awake, the faster he slips into unconsciousness.

* * *

It's early when Sherlock wakes in the morning, only shortly after dawn; the light has that dim, grey quality that lingers after sunrise and the hospital seems entirely still. It's oddly relaxing, though Sherlock has never been one for silence. It's boring.

He turns his head on the pillow and spots something on the small table next to his bed – keys? Lying on a neatly folded square of paper. A sense of foreboding grips Sherlock as he reaches for the keys, wincing as his ribs protest the movement. His scoops them carefully into his hand, holding them like glass as though afraid they might break.

John's keys.

Much faster, he grabs the paper; it crinkles in his hand, which is almost shaking in its urgency, and he unfolds it. The handwriting is neat. The sentence is only six words long.

_Burn the heart_ _out of you._

**AN: In review format, please place votes for/against a sequel! (Will, if written, be called 'M for Moriarty', or if you would prefer will simply be added to this fiction.)**

**On a side note, out of curiosity...to anyone who is a fan of the show 'House' – is it me, or have you noticed certain similarities between Holmes & Watson and House & Wilson? Also, take a look at the answer Wilson gives to Kutner in the episode 'Joy To The World' (S5,E11) about the supposed sender of the mystery green present...brilliant!**

**Looking forward to your thoughts! Sorry for the long author's note...**


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